This morning I did my usual thing: made a pot of tea, took a mug into the garden, and walked around for the early inspection to see what the day's chores would be. I looked at the bare patches and wondered were some of my friends just slow? or had they disappeared?
I looked at the plants that were in the wrong place, looked at the chewed edges on others, looked at the grasses I had neglected to cut back, looked at the roses I had recently pruned and wondered if I had been too severe. And then it struck me, why don't I ever notice what I've done right?
What looked right this morning was the way the light was slanting in across some of the beds, so that the leaves shone, and the dew sparkled and clung to every crenellation, and the daffodils, though a bit ragged, glowed softly. I said a fond and tender goodbye to them; they are in their last days.
I had nothing to do with any of the moments of beauty that caught my eye this morning. But here's what I did right: I noticed them.